Code of Arms
by Prison of Ambivalence
Summary: In comes Altair, in comes Malik, and in comes a brave new world of political intrigue, diplomatic assassinations, and bitter curtain drama. Masyaf is not fun and games, she realized.
1. Chapter 1

She tore through the streets, lungs burning and legs aching, the desert air drying up her throat to the point where she felt she was swallowing on sandpaper. The stolen parcel of food in her arms was slowing her down, she cursed silently, wishing she had taken less.

"You'll pay for that, thief!" One of the soldiers behind her shouted. It was encouragement enough for her to urge her muscles to carry her faster.

No sooner had she turned the corner, however, did she see another swarm of soldiers, snapped to attention now because of her raucous entry. Muttering obscenities, she turned back around and kept running, and upon finding the nearest stack of crates, climbed them hastily, too messy for her tastes, especially with the parcel of foot dangling awkwardly from her arm and impeding her speed.

The soldiers were quick to follow, but she had spent years on these rooftops and she knew them well. Swallowing her shallow breaths, she kept onwards until she could no longer hear the soldiers' shouts and screams. She lowered herself onto a balcony and squatted there, catching her breath.

Then, distant shouts jolted her to attention again. Her heart thumped loudly as she wheeled around, trying to find where the soldiers had spotted her—but how could they? She was in a fairly secure place, and she was _squatting, _for god's sake! Her gaze rolled down the street, where she saw a battalion—an entire _battalion!—_ of guards running after…she shifted a little over the edge of the balcony to see better…after someone in white robes. Relief washed over her as she realized she hasn't yet been found, silently thanking that unfortunate victim for his timely distraction.

That was the end of her gratitude, however. Because said robed stranger quickly settled on a similar stack of crates she had jumped earlier, and was swiftly making his way up to the rooftops, uncomfortably close to her new hiding place. In the split second it took for her to decide whether she should crouch lower and pray they miss her, or to get up and bolt, he was already sprinting across a dip in the building, and was beelining straight for her balcony.

Cursing again for her misfortunes, she picked up her food and stood up, gloriously revealing her position for the soldiers behind her, and turning right, ran for the poorer district.

"That's her!" She heard one of the guards yell immediately. "That's the thief from earlier!"

"Forget her, eyes on the assassin!"

_Assassin_? She stole a glance over her shoulder and blanched when she saw that the man in white robes was _following _her, only a few rooftops behind. She could no longer be sure if the guards were chasing her or the assassin, or maybe the assassin was chasing her?

She had no time to ruminate on this, however, because when she looked up she suddenly saw herself looking at the edge of the roof of the last house on that block—there was nothing but the open market waiting down below, and no other roofs across which to jump, only a bell tower to her right. The assassin caught up to her in stride and, in the moment in which he passed her, nodded an acknowledgement to her—and her eyes widened at the sight of that youth, that cocky smirk playing on those scarred lips—_was this all a game to him?—_that promised an equally handsome face—before turning right sharply and launching himself up the tower.

She watched for a second or two, gaping in awe as his deft fingers clutched at the cracks in the wall, hoisting his figure up steadily and speedily, as if he was born to scale such heights. And she wished vaguely she was blessed with such talents, as it would make stealing much easier.

"Quick, follow him!"

"No, get the girl first—"

As soon as those words reached her ear, she knew her capture was imminent. There was nowhere left for her to run, as the assassin had successfully weeded her out of her hiding place and stalled her long enough to hinder her escape. Granted, she was slow, but…

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something dive off the tower and out of sight. It was for only an instant, but her heart pounded madly in shock and she sprinted the rest of the way to the edge of the roof to see where that thing—the man, she supplied—had landed from such a height.

But there was no sign of him on the streets below, only a haystack cart, a few crates, and bustling citizens seemingly unaware of what was going on above them. A jump like that would impale someone, she thought wryly, dread creeping up her spine. She stopped just short of the edge, her toes almost dangling in the air, and watched as dust and debris crumbled off to the ground below her—so far below her.

"Sir, the assassin is gone!"

"Doesn't matter now, at least we have the thief!"

And with that, a rough hand found its way to her shoulder, yanking her back. She struggled, and god, she struggled hard, the parcel of food dropping from her arms as she hit, punched, scratched, kicked, and yelled in every which direction. She failed to notice how the guards had inched closer and closer to the…

And that was when the heel of her foot slipped from the edge.

She fell backwards, wide eyed and mouth in a silent "o," a guard still tangled in her arms in a bizarre air dance of sorts. She was going to take him down with her, and their arms were still battling as a sharp shriek-like gasp escaped her lungs as she felt the solid roof abandon her footing.

Time seemed to slow while she was in the air. All she knew was the rush of survival instincts kicking in, and the sole, utterly dominating thought that she needed to live. She had family to feed. Thing to take care of. Places she'd like to visit. And even as that thought hit her, her body was already inching sideways, her other arm reaching as far as it could to grab the guard's right hand sleeve.

It was an instantaneous jerk, but the guard was unprepared for it—and she was too, at her sudden surge of strength, her sudden impulse of coordinated action, and the success of it itself—and found himself pinned to the bottom as they dived toward the ground.

His body hit first. There was sickening crack. She _felt _it. He broke under her weight and the impact of the fall, and she could feel the crush reach his organs and bones, feel the soft but sure internal _squishing, _and closed her eyes as she herself followed a split second later, his body softening the fall but making it no less painful. Her left shoulder still hit the ground hard, breaking the skin and possibly dislocating the joint.

Feeling winded, she allowed herself three seconds to regain herself, wincing as pain shot through her left arm at her attempt at steeling herself against the ground. Both those three seconds were too long. The soldiers from the roof followed suit, and although she was already running when she heard their thudding footsteps on the ground behind her, she was nowhere fast enough.

"How dare you!" One of them yelled behind her, obviously angry at her act of murder.

They were upon her in seconds, grabbing at her and eliciting a pained scream when a hand snaked up to jerk her shoulder harshly. They had their swords drawn, she noted bitterly, eyeing a glint of metal in the air as four of the gained on her. By then her mind had given up as she had fallen, and let herself be dragged up by her arms and tunic and hair. But her body seemed to have a will of its own, still struggling madly, maniacally against the men who tried to restrain her.

Faintly, she registered the crowd that was gathering, and an unbecoming figure among them, lurking the back, eyes staring at her through the darkness. It sent shivers down her spine.

A fist slammed into the side of her face, and she doubled back, a yell caught in her throat. She must have looked so ungodly right then, worse than the most shameless of beggars.

It seemed, however, that the guards were becoming more and more amused by her struggling. She was catching bits and pieces of laughter and snorting between all the yelling and screaming. When one of them forcefully ripped the front of her tunic, she got the point.

"No!" She spat indignantly, swinging her arm like a madman and hitting the nearest face.

They laughed their disgusting laugh and tugged at her torn tunic more. "Feisty, this one!"

"Best to show her her place. In front of everyone."

The menace and anticipation in his voice was tell-tale and palpable. And it was encouragement enough for her to renew her burning need for survival. She was _not _going to be shamed in public, even if it meant the death of her.

"No! Let go of me! Let me go—no, _no—_stop, let—"

There was a sharp sound of metal sliding.

Her current aggressor froze, as did the other captors. He made a gurgling sound, eyes wide and mouth agape, before his knees gave away under him and he crumpled to the ground, face first at her feet. She bit back a gasp as she slowly, daringly raised her head to look back up, and saw the fleeting face of the white robed man standing where the guard was, something like a small, bloody blade in the air. Then he was gone, pitching himself to her immediate right to strike that guard.

Fight ensued.

More and more guards were swarming into the crowd now, swords raised at the ready, intent to kill evident in their eyes, voices, and gestures. She wasn't sure how she managed to stay alive during the scuffle, but before she knew it, she had a sword in her hand, and a guard had fallen in front of her. The white figure was faring much better, holding his own against the onslaught, sword in one hand and short blade in the other. She made a mental note to thank him for his save.

But as the fight dragged on, she realized despairingly—between blind swings and wild brandishing of her sword—that there were simply _too many _guards. The white robed man was steadily being pushed back into a wall, and his expression, despite half of it being hidden under the hood, was contorted in a mask of concentration and pain. There were cuts on his arms and chest, already staining his clothes in red.

As more and more bodies fell before the assassin, she found herself, thankfully, almost forgotten as all attention was turned to the man. A glint on the roof to her right caught her attention. Her head swerved, immediately locking onto the archer that was taking aim.

She looked back—the assassin was too preoccupied, swords locked with a guard, facing left. He wasn't going to notice, there was no way. The other guards were stepping back, obviously making room for the arrow—

She didn't know what it was the made her fly towards him, or what she was thinking when she called out "Assassin!" with hoarse lungs, but she saw the arrow leave the archers hand, saw it tearing through the air, directly towards the white figure—she wasn't going to make it—she was past the guards now—almost directly in front of—

A large force collided with her shoulder—or the area immediately under it, she could no longer tell—and she was thrown back into the assassin. Fiery agony shot through her veins as pain erupted fiercely from where the arrow had lodged itself. She screamed belatedly as her legs gave away beneath her and she crumpled to the ground.

But surprisingly, the guards were, too. They were taking arrows—arrows coming from…she looked up to where the archer had been, and in his place was another man in white robes and head scarf, different from those of the assassin, but the leather belt and red strap gave him away as an obvious ally. The dead body of the archer lay by his feet as the new one fired arrows at the guards.

The assassin was quick to take this opportunity. He finished the rest of the guards with mighty swings of his sword, and just as another squad was turning the corner, she felt a large, strong hand pulling on her good arm until she was faintly supported by her shaky legs.

"Can you stand?" He growled hoarsely in her ear.

Gritting her teeth against the pain, the arrow still _very much there,_ she steeled herself against his grasp the best she could, feeling as if her shoulder was going to tear off when he broke into a hasty run. She could tell she was slowing him down, as she stumbled and lost her footing every few minutes, and he had to double back on his steps for her.

He led her this way and that, turning left then turning right, until she was so dazed and lost that she had no idea at all where they were. Despite having spent a considerable number of years in Jerusalem, the assassin seemed to know it better than she did. The shouts and screams dimmed behind them, as did the alarm bells, until they reached an empty back alleyway, and he stopped, facing her.

She bent over, catching her breath, clutching her shoulder, and marveled at how evenly the assassin's breathing was, even after the fight and the subsequent flee.

"You—I'm—the arrow—" She rasped, groaning in pain as the adrenaline began to wear off and her shoulder was burning again. Wordlessly, the man stepped forward, backed her up against the wall, pinning her there with his overbearing figure.

A hand traveled up to grip the arrow, unmoving. He leaned in close—too close—and she could see his face for the first time—golden eyes, a shapely nose, strong lips and that firm jaw—and her heart thudded uncomfortably despite her predicament as the handsomeness of the combination of those features struck her—

"This will hurt."

That was all the warning she had before his free hand shot up to cover her mouth, and his hand on the arrow tugged sharply. A scream was wrenched from her throat as she felt what seemed like a hot poker being torn in—or out?—of her shoulder. She could feel—_hear—_her flesh tearing under the sharp back wedges of the arrow, could feel it ripping as the foreign object was yanked out of her. Warmth gushed out and flowed freely down her arm, her chest. Her breath was ragged now, and her free arm was gripping the assassin's that was covering her mouth and muffling her screams.

He held her there for a moment, hand pressing painfully firmly on her bleeding wound, the other in a vice-like grip over her mouth. He let her yells and incomprehensible protests fade to grunts and whimpers as she fought back the pain and tears. He gave her a moment to sort it out herself, pinning her there for her to cling onto, and when she seemed to regain herself a bit, he let go of her mouth, but the hand on the shoulder remained.

Then when even that hand left, she felt the absence of warmth taken away when he stepped back and dissolved the proximity. Her own hand quickly replaced his, pressing on her shoulder, but her eyes never left his.

He made to leave.

"Wait," she managed feebly, attempting to pry herself away from the wall, but failing and collapsing back against it. "Wait, no—" A foreboding darkness was creeping into the corners of her eyes. She fought it back desperately.

He paused, but didn't stop. She wasn't sure what made her call out to him again, what made her lunge forward with her remaining strength in an effort to touch him—but something in him reminded her of…she couldn't quite recall. But there was an undeniable familiarity in his presence, his movements, his sureness, and it put her in mind of childhood memories she had long since banished and forgotten. And curiosity took the better of her.

Her vision faltered for a moment, and she saw the swimming image of the assassin's backside—his short sword, the scabbard, the leather belt and the sash—and her own bloody hand reaching for him—before she saw dirt. Something cold and hard hit the side of her face—"Father," she heard herself whisper—and then she was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Smell was the first sense to return to her. Later, she supposed it'd make sense, considering the marketplace in which she was born—full of exotic spices and traders' incenses—but right then, she could only make note of a certain smoky fragrance in the room. Frankincense, perhaps?

A soft thud off in the distance compelled her to open her eyes. She was staring at a dull, brownish ceiling—unremarkable, but strange, considering the last thing she remembered was seeing a similar colored ground drawing closer and closer to her face—

Images and memories swam before her eyes: strong arms, a fatherly embrace, kisses on the forehead, the sound of leather boots against the gravel as she followed the white robes through the marketplace—

The hairs on the back of her neck were tingling. She could sense a certain danger approaching. Looking around, she took in her surroundings, took in the bed she lay on, which had a musty smell to it obviously not her own; a sort of shopfront, lined with shelves of books and paper and ink pots; two doors—one to her left, closed, and one to her right, open. Through it she could see a shadow flickering, obviously human, and she could hear low mumblings of "…left for only one day…all this blood…better have a good explanation…"

She looked down at herself and realized that her shoulder had been bandaged, clean and pristine, much better handiwork than she could have accomplished on her own. Without thinking, she made to get off the bed, wondering vaguely where the assassin from earlier had gone—her feet hit the floor with soft thuds—

There was the sound of a sword being drawn on reflex. Whoever it was in the next room had heard her. The room suddenly fell very silent as two pairs of ears strained to make out the other's noises.

She wasn't sure when or how she managed to glide to the wall of the open doorway, but the next thing she knew, she was poking her head through, eyes darting this way and that into the adjacent room to find the source of the sounds.

To her surprise, the room seemed empty. There was a wooden mesh fence that served as the roof, and the latch at the other end was closed. The fountain below it was void of water, though the muddy footprints on its ledge were tell-tale of another presence. On the floor were piles of large cushions…and bloody bandages that she supposed must have come from her wound. No assassin. Blinking, she took a few steps, until—

Something cold and sharp pressed against the side of her neck. She tensed and froze.

"What is your business here?" A menacing voice growled from behind her, every bit of threatening intent oozing out of his tone. How he managed to even get there without her noticing?

Uncertain how to face such a situation, she tried inching her body sideways to get a view of her aggressor, only to have the blade press harder against her neck and cause the man to bark, "Do not move."

She swallowed. "I'm—I don't have any business here," she said truthfully, trying to keep her tone as even as possible, blinking back the panic tears that burned her eyes. "I woke up after…after—there was a man who was with me—he—?"

"Speak sense, child!" The man snapped, impatience creeping into his voice now. Then, slower, in a calmer, more dangerous tone, "Are you a Templar kin?"

She blinked, feeling the urge to turn around a little more than overwhelming now. "A Templar? No…?" She took a deep breath, her own nerves stretching thin. Shutting her eyes, she spoke as steadily as she could. "No. No, I'm not. I don't know where I am, I don't know why I've been taken here, because the last thing I remember is me collapsing in an alley somewhere, and the man that was with me—I suppose he's the one that brought me here—?"

"Rafiq." A different voice—cooler, more distant—but one that she recognized.

Her eyes flew open, and she saw the hooded assassin from earlier: his robes were stained, and from what little face she could see from under the cowl, she could see sweat and the heaves of a slightly uneven breathing. At catching her gaze, he flashed her a lopsided smirk, then proceeded to address the man behind her.

"Rafiq, she's with me," he said lightly, leaning against the doorframe.

The blade on her neck promptly lowered, though slowly, as if the man was still assessing her. "Altair," came his voice, and the tension was gone from it to be replaced by a kind of knowing exasperation that now made the voice sound much older than earlier. "This is only your fourth independent mission, and already you've brought two unwarranted guests into our Bureaus—do not even try, boy—you think I'm deaf to what happens in Acre?"

The lopsided smirk turned into a lopsided grin. The assassin—Altair—shrugged his cowl off.

He wasn't much older than her, the girl realized, and certainly much younger than the rafiq, who was an older man with an already graying beard. She was a mere fourteen, and Altair looked no older than Sahar, who was only seventeen. But something about the way he stood, the way he poised himself against the doorframe, the way he walked and held himself…there was a different aura. An older one, perhaps, but certainly one that tingled her alarm senses and kept her on edge.

"I couldn't just leave her," Altair said. "She was dying. And because of me, too."

"The last woman about whom you said that claimed to have been kidnapped from her husband."

"A husband that was beating her publicly—"

"In a _private_ family affair—"

"_Rafiq—_"

"We are followers of a Creed, Altair. Not a vigilante service to fuel your ego. If you wish you prove your worldly capabilities to Malik, I suggest something more productive to Masyaf than saving random people off the streets."

Altair's mouth drew into a thin line and his eyes settled slowly on her. She quickly looked away, finding his ember gaze too powerful for her to look directly into. "She was not random. Or at least, turned out not to be."

The Rafiq raised a quizzical brow. "Oh? Do explain." He sounded amused, if anything, and the girl couldn't decide if that was good or not.

"Take a look at her left hand. And the back of her neck."

The girl did so before the Rafiq, but she already knew what she'd find. A scar on the fourth finger on her left hand—at the base, right above her knuckle—and a burn mark on the back of her neck, right under the place her hair ceded to skin. Altair must have seen when he bandaged her shoulder. She'd had them as long as she could remember, always assuming that the finger scar was from a cooking accident of sorts and the unshapely mark (or she assumed it was unshapely because she could never see it) was from some welting incident, but now…

Under the scrutiny of the Rafiq, whose eyes steadily widened, she wasn't so sure anymore. Perhaps they marked her as a "Templar kin," as he put it venomously earlier.

"She's of Masyaf," the Rafiq breathes, seemingly in disbelief. "A Masyaf Pillar child." The last words were said so softly that she couldn't be sure if she even heard them.

The Rafiq and Altair exchanged unreadable glances over her shoulder, and a contemplative silence fell.

Finally, she spoke up. "I-I mean no harm—"

"Child, what is your name?" The Rafiq snapped.

"I-I'm-my name—" She blanched. Not because she didn't know, but because she was known by many names; almost one for every person she met, every city she stayed in. "Hanan, I think," she said finally.

"You think?"

"It's my most recent name. It's what Sahar calls me, anyway."

"Sahar?"

"He's a friend."

"And…your last name, I dare venture?"

The girl's silence and downcast eyes were answer enough. What followed were a series of uncomfortable questions regarding what she knew of her birthplace, who her parents were, how she had ended up where she was, where she had been, what she knew of her past, if anything—some she had been able to answer, but most she couldn't. And with each time she failed to give a satisfactory answer or explanation, a mix of empathy and graveness washed over the Rafiq's face, even as Altair stood passively in the corner, staring at them silently.

When finally, the interrogation was finished, the Rafiq sighed deeply and concluded, "She does not remember anything, it seems."

The girl looked up, confusion, panic, and frustration all thrumming in her veins. "Remember _what_? What do you know about me?"

"I think, child," the Rafiq said with a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "That you should find out for yourself. At the heart of the matter."

"We're taking her to Al Mualim?" Altair asked, excitement barely contained in his mask of indifference.

The Rafiq shot him a look. "Fortune apparently favors your work, Altair, for you have chanced upon one of a rare Masyaf bloodline." Here, he looked down at the girl, then back at the assassin. "Ride for Masyaf immediately with this message. Al Mualim will know what to do."

"It will be done," Altair replied promptly, habitually. "But before I go, perhaps a word of praise for my judgment in bringing her here, someone _productive to Masyaf_? Had my _arrogance _not heeded—"

"Such insolence and pride, son!" But the Rafiq was practically laughing regardless, recognizing his own words in Altair's. "It was Allah's will, and do not forget it. Go, now, before you frighten the girl any further. And send word of Al Mualim's decision, should I need to pull another assassin for escort."

Altair bowed out with a grin and a "Safety and peace," his cowl back up. Within seconds, he was gone.

And with him gone, the girl was forced to be left behind with the old man, who had returned to his shopfront and began sorting through various books and maps. She watched him for a minute, contemplating whether or not she could ask about what he had said earlier. But remembering he had said that she should find out for herself at the heart of the matter, she doubted _he _was going to say much in the way of explanation.

Perhaps…"Was Masyaf my home?" She asked earnestly.

The Rafiq looked up from his map and thought for a moment. "Yes, it was. Something must have happened that cast you away, Hanan." He crossed his arms under his dark blue robes and gave her a fatherly smile that crinkled his eyes and shook his beard. "Do not be anxious, child. It may be by coincidence that you crossed paths with Altair, but ultimately it is a good coincidence. You are of the Creed. We will look after you."

But she didn't need looking after, the girl wanted to say. She was fine where she was, where she had friends, where she had Sahar, where she had a home, a family—

"You'll soon have a new family," the Rafiq said with a smile which the girl returned weakly. "Rest now. Your journey is soon to be long."

A/N: The year is 1183, 8 years before the start of the game, which puts Altair at 17, and our pathetic heroine at 14.

Reviews are appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

Word arrived from Masyaf three days later.

She watched as the Rafiq—"Call me Sayid," he had insisted—read the parchment, his brows furrowed as he scribbled down the decryption on a scrap of parchment laid out on the table. The scratch of quill against paper was the only sound that permeated the otherwise silent room. She watched quietly from the bed, her knees tucked up carefully as to not disturb her still-healing shoulders, and pondered vaguely what was in the message.

No doubt an order for her to be sent to Masyaf. Or, as Sayid put it, _returned _to Masyaf. He had hinted as much.

Three days she was kept in the Bureau to rest, to heal, to wait for the alerts for her to die down in the city while Sayid went in and out, running errands and returning with foods and medicine. She had asked if she could go to her current place of stay and let her friends know where she was, but was promptly refused on grounds that she would be caught the minute she stepped outside. So really, she was _imprisoned _for three days.

She looked up when the sound of Sayid writing was gone. The man nodded contemplatively at the scrap of parchment now in his hand, absent mindedly scratching his beard with his other hand. After a moment, he looked up and said, "Good news. Allah willing, Hanan, you are to be escorted to Masyaf in two days' time."

The girl looked down and mumbled something under her breath.

"I'm sorry?"

"…What if I told you I wished to stay here?"

Sayid was silent for a few seconds. Then he sighed, put down quill and parchment and walked over to her. She felt the dip of the bed as it sank under his weight when he sat down.

"Stay here?" Sayid said, sounding fatherly and patronizing. "But why? From what you've told me, I gather that you've all been scrounging for a living, surviving off the streets and thievery to even acquire food—"

"But I have _friends_ here, Sayid—"

"And you'll have new ones—"

"When I don't even know _why _I must go to Masyaf?"

Sayid pursed his lips, giving her a look of resignation which worried her. "You are someone special to Masyaf. It is not my place to explain. You'll have a better life, Hanan." Dismissal was in his tone, and she recognized it. Biting her lips to silence any further retorts, she hung her head and plopped back down against the covers.

Her escort arrived the following evening.

She was sitting in the small courtyard, flipping through old maps the Rafiq had left lying around, feeling a sense of bitter nostalgia every time her eyes came across a landmark she recognized—the fountain ruins by which she had met Sahar, the bell tower she had once broken her leg trying to scale, the nobleman's garden out of which she was thrown for trespassing…and the marketplace edge where she had met the assassin.

"You must be Hanan."

Wrenched from her thoughts, the girl yelped, dropping the maps everywhere as she wheeled on her bench to stare at the intruder. He was an assassin, that was certain, dressed in clothes similar to Altair's, a cowl hiding his face and a blade at his side. He looked at her from the door of the Bureau with his hands behind his back, relaxed and at ease. "How—how did you—I didn't hear—?" There was an unsettling contrast between her tension and his languidness.

Noticing this, the assassin dropped his cowl and stepped forward, giving her a quick, reassuring smile. He was older than Altair, the girl observed, though not by much. His hair was certainly shorter, and a scraggly beard was already settling in. She stood up, gathering the maps hastily, unsure of what to say.

"I trust the Rafiq has spoken to you of me?" He asked lightly, in a voice she noted was smoother than Altair's, and not a little gentler.

"You're my escort, yes," she mumbled, unhappy at being caught off guard, and displeased at the reminder of her impending journey away from Jerusalem. She really had no desire to travel.

"Malik, then, if you would."

She looked up at that, recalling something the Rafiq had mentioned to Altair—"proving worldly capabilities" and such—and blinked dumbly in realization.

"Something wrong?"

"No…just, you were mentioned under the context of another assassin, that's all."

A playful scowl formed on the assassin's—Malik's—features. "Allow me to guess. Altair."

He led her back into the Bureau and exchanged jovial greetings with the Rafiq. Malik then handed over several sealed letters, explaining in hushed tones that, "There has been movement in Lusignon's court. Namely, with Sibylla. Al Mualim wishes for there to be eyes there. Instructions for relocation, I presume." He gestured toward the letters warily.

Upon noticing the girl's wide-eyed stare, the two whispered even more quietly for a few more minutes before turning their attention to her. They seemed to have reached a conclusion of sorts.

"Hanan, I've left some bread and cheese on the table. It'd be best if you rest early today, as you will be leaving at sunrise tomorrow." Then to the assassin, "Malik, I need you to run courier to de Carre," and here, Sayid handed over a scroll.

"Our Templar contact?"

"Yes. There has been word of new Crusader activity from the mainlands. We will need a briefing on that soon enough."

"Very well," Malik said with a nod. "It shall be done." Then to Hanan, "I will be back by sunrise. Wait for me by the northern gates, yes?"

Reluctantly, she nodded.

After Malik disappeared through the "doorway" in the ceiling, the Rafiq began scribbling away madly. By the time she had finished dinner in the other room and returned to the shopfront, he was binding a stack of parchment and was preparing to leave.

"Rest, Hanan," he ordered. "There are some errands I must run." He was halfway out the backdoor when he paused and turned around, "And don't forget to change your bandages. Admittedly Malik's handiwork with medicine is not as good as mine or Altair's." With that, he was gone, the secret door in the wall sliding shut behind him.

She stood there for a few moments after him, listening for footsteps, for the scratch of leather against stone. She heard none. When she deemed enough time to have passed, she slipped back into a tunic she was given to wear during the day, and without thinking, began to climb out the ceiling exit in the other room. Her shoulder gave away at one point and she slipped and fell onto the cushions, cursing herself under her breath for her lack of physical prowess. An image of Altair scaling the bell tower returned to her, and she mentally frowned.

She was out on the rooftops soon enough, the freshness of the crisp night air sharpening the lungs that have been staling for almost a week in the dusty Bureau. She breathed deeply, feeling the chilly Jerusalem breeze finger through her hair, breaking into a run when she felt the rush of the moment sink in. _This _was where she belonged, where her home was, where she needed to stay.

She was _not _going to Masyaf.

She had engineered her escape for days, ever since Sayid had told her that an escort was coming. His leaving earlier had been unexpected, but a fortunate turn of events from her original plan.

The soft thuds of her footsteps against the rooftops slowed as she neared her destination—a small stone house at the heart of the poor district. Lowering herself down to the ground, she peered into the window and saw familiar figures lying on the ground, bodies heaving evenly in slumber. The moonlight cast long shadows over them—ominous, but it was a sight she'd grown accustomed to.

Smiling to herself, she opened the door as quietly as possible, slipping inside and preparing to—

Somewhere in the corner of the room, a candle was struck alight.

Guards.

The familiar figures she saw through the window were actually the awkward, unfamiliar gaits of three soldiers, now sitting up and sneering at her with greasy, disgusting grins. One of them she recognized from the street—the other two, obviously subordinates. Her heart skipped a beat as their gazes met and she froze in the doorway, a prey for the picking. She felt as if a bucket of cold water was dumped on her, yanking the previous rush of adrenaline out of her and replacing it with pure dread. The excitement was gone; now her heart was just a frantically thudding mess.

"Wh-Where are—" She spat, attempting her best not to look scared.

"Your little friends?" Jested the guard she recognized, drawling out each syllable, his fat beard trembling as he talked. "They came after us looking for you, you know. After that little…fiasco. And then we followed them straight back here." His yellowing teeth were bared in an ugly, ugly smile.

Hanan's stomach lurched uncomfortably. "Sahar—Leila—are they—?"

The guard had the decency to laugh boisterously. "They're dead."

Her knees felt weak.

"Now, we need to have a little talk," he went on, standing up now and slowly making his way to her. "You were rescued by an assassin. You were gone for a few days. I think it is safe to say you know where their hideout is." He stepped uncomfortably close, his rotten breath breathing down her forehead, grubby fingers reaching up to twirl a few strands of her short hair—"And a pretty little thing like you would make good company in the meantime…"

A/N: This is a bit too short for my liking, but I've been bumming around too much and switching countries...


End file.
